


Unbidden

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, im sorry mom, welcome to kylux hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-27 05:56:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6272509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Hux is an FBI profiler who has just been assigned to the biggest case of his career: the gruesome murder of former airshow pilot and beloved actor Han Solo, who was stabbed to death in the parlor of his beachside mansion. The case is going nowhere fast, but help soon comes from the unlikeliest of places: a First Order cartel hitman and longtime criminal informant, known to Hux only by the alias “Kylo Ren.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bad News

**Author's Note:**

> To any FBI agents reading this: I'm sorry. Most of my knowledge of the BAU comes from Criminal Minds and crime documentaries, so do with that what you will, lmao.

Agent Hux had been sitting at his desk when the news came.

Finn had come crashing into the Behavioral Analysis Unit’s communal office, waving his arms madly about and shouting something about Han Solo being found dead. To be completely honest, Hux didn’t watch many movies anymore and had no idea who Han Solo was until he remembered the missing persons case from about 22 years ago that the Bureau occasionally revisited-- the disappearance of 8-year-old Ben Solo. The death of the son of prolific actor and airshow pilot Han Solo had shaken the nation to its core, and this new blow was shaping up to be the final nail in the coffin of the beloved American icon.

He was killed in the parlor of his 8,500 square foot mansion on the beachside of sunny San Diego, left lying in a pool of his own blood with enough stab wounds to fell a horse. So far, the city’s police department had been scrambling to contain the crime scene and withhold details of the investigation as the media onslaught inevitably descended on the home. Local police are usually loathe to call in the FBI in for assistance with a murder case if they can at all avoid it, but the SDPD was simply not equipped to deal with a case of such notoriety; despite having a large population, San Diego is a far cry from nearby Los Angeles, and has exponentially lower crime rates, particularly in the area where the murder occurred. San Diegans are not known for handling murder investigations particularly well, as such. Which is where Hux and the others come in.

He knows not to let Solo’s fame affect his view of the overall case (except where relevant), but of course Dameron’s young intern seems to have taken this death personally.

“I just can't believe he’s gone,” Finn says. “Who could have wanted to hurt him?”

“That's what they pay us to find out,” Hux replies detachedly, putting on his coat and clearing away his things. The BAU will have to leave for California shortly. It's actually one of the things Hux likes most about his job, having to travel the nation so frequently--especially when the destination is San Diego. He likes Quantico well enough, but there's a certain charm to the West Coast that can never really be matched anywhere else.

“Poor Leia,” Agent Pava muses, filing papers away neatly in the cabinet under her desk-- “first her son, and now this? Someone must really have it out for them.”

Hux hums dismissively, needing to ruminate over the details of the case in his mind on the plane ride before discussing it, even in casual terms, with his colleagues. As soon as Agent Phasma returns from her post-investigation follow-up with the victim’s family from a recently solved case, the task force will be briefed and the jet will be prepared for their flight to San Diego. Hux taps his fingers on his desk in an attempt to relieve the nervous energy that always plagues him when he embarks on a new case. He once overheard Finn say it was almost sick, one time, while he was talking to Agent Dameron. That is, the excitement he feels when poring over the details of these heinous crimes, putting together the pieces of the puzzle in his head as more and more of the picture comes into focus, the rush of pride when they come together with a click.

Hux does not feel guilty about it. Some things cannot be helped. He wouldn't be so good at his job if he didn't enjoy it to a certain extent; you don't get to be a world-renowned criminal profiler for the FBI at the age of thirty-four if you spend all your time brooding over the savagery of man and weeping every time you look at a crime scene photograph. Marcus Finn certainly has a lot to learn if he wants to make it in this line of work, and Dameron isn't really helping him at all by being soft on him.

Phasma comes through the office door as Finn asks if she heard about the Solo murder, and yes, she certainly did, they all got the phone call, Finn, and then they take a couple minutes to sort out the last of their things and fetch their pre-packed suitcases before they leave the BAU headquarters. And then, it’s off to California.

 

***

  
Solo’s residence is even more grand than Hux expected. The evening sky is an orange-tinged pink, with the setting sun’s deep rays reflecting brilliantly off the house’s massive west-facing windows. There are queen palms lining the long driveway up to the house, and white columns stand in front of the huge chestnut door like silent guards. The parlor would probably be quite a sight, crystal chandelier and all, if it wasn't for the blood sprayed across the room and broken mirrors with their shards of glass scattered around the floor.

Solo’s body is gone, already taken to the coroner by now, so Hux has to make use of the crime scene photographs provided to him in the briefing. He holds them up to the corresponding areas they were taken, trying to project the image of the body into reality, to imagine its mass and its shape laying tangibly out in front of him.

Dameron, Phasma, Pava, and Finn fan out behind Hux as they examine the coppery blood stains, the latter’s gaze settling on him nervously him as he kneels by the large pool of blood at the center of the room.

“I don't know, looks pretty textbook-disorganized-killer to me,” Dameron says, knitting his gloved hands together and cracking his knuckles. “All this blood indicates a great deal of anger towards the victim-- it's possible the unknown subject was suffering from temporary insanity. This was definitely personal. Has the local PD interviewed the ex-wife yet?”

“No, but Ms. Skywalker’s probably not our unsub,” says Phasma. “She's a retired actress in her late sixties, and her health is failing. Pretty hard to stab someone forty-two times when you need painkillers to function on a daily basis. Besides, we still have to explore every avenue. We know that there are three probable scenarios when we're dealing with famous people who get killed--Finn?” she asks, quizzing him. He seems happy to oblige.

“One: there's a professional reason-- someone doesn't pay his debts, some starlet crosses the wrong Hollywood mogul, and she ends up dead. A business deal gone wrong.”

“Two,” Pava chimes in, “An obsessive fan takes action against the object of their affection. It's usually preceded by some perceived wrong-- maybe the famous person is in a new relationship, and some possessive stalker sees this as a personal slight.”

“And three: someone close to the victim exacts his vengeance,” Hux finishes. “Dameron's probably right-- that seems the most likely so far, based on what I've gathered from this mess.” He gestures toward the room at large, with a sweeping motion of his hand.

“And we can't forget about Ben Solo either,” Pava adds. “It's possible Han was the primary target of whoever killed Ben, and he went after the son first to inflict as much suffering on him as possible. When this proved unsatisfactory, he came back to finish the job.”

“Twenty-two years later?” Phasma counters. “It's certainly possible they're related in some way, but it's rare for that much time to elapse between emotionally motivated killings. Some things stay the same, but emotions usually fade over the years.”

“Unless we're looking at a serial killer,” says Dameron. “They can't control their urges-- the only way to satisfy them is to engage in their rituals at a certain interval, to go through the motions until the psychological need is temporarily satisfied.”

Hux returns the crime scene photos to their Manila envelope and steps away from the pool of blood, nodding. “Have Finn look into the database to see if there were any crimes matching this M.O. in a 60-mile radius, say, in the last… ten years. Make sure to look for patterns in the dates and victimology.”

“On it!” Finn shouts, running back to Dameron’s car for his laptop. At least the boy can be quite useful when he needs to be.

They spend more time arguing idly about their theories, proposing different psychological explanations of the crime, but they won't be able to work out a complete profile until they get Solo’s autopsy results back and touch base with the SDPD for more contextual information. Hux leaves the crime scene with a slight sense of unease, somehow both more satisfied and more confused than when he entered it.

When he gets in the black Civic parked outside, Agent Phasma slides gracefully into the passenger seat beside him. Most of the time the two of them work independently of each other, but on rare occasions they do partner up to hash out profiles for some cases together. She’s probably the only other member of the BAU that Hux has some semblance of respect for-- or at least that he can tolerate enough to have a beer with.

However, tonight is not for drinking; after an evening at the crime scene, the team is to check into the Grand Marriott downtown and get some shut-eye before a meeting with SD detectives in the morning. Hopefully, by then, Hux will manage to create a satisfactory skeleton of a profile with which the local PD can begin their suspects list.

So far, he's thinking: white male, mid-thirties to late-forties, lives in the immediate area, uneducated, possibly known to the victim. It's not a lot to go off of, but it's a start, he muses.

Phasma tries to strike up a conversation with him at the next red light, when Hux brakes a little too hard. “Something bothering you, Eric?” she asks, smiling with mock sweetness.

Hux rolls his eyes at the sound of his first name. “No, I'm quite alright. Just a bit tired. Hopping through time zones all the time does that to you.”

“Oh, pish-posh, darling. It's only a three-hour difference. You are getting enough sleep, aren't you?”

Phasma likes to do this sometimes-- act all maternally towards him in a teasing way, if only to remind him that he's not the most experienced one around, nor has he been around the longest, despite getting the most recognition for his work. He isn't a particularly big fan of it.

“I don't see how my sleep schedule is of any importance to you, although I do appreciate the concern, _Meredith_.”

Phasma’s smile falls at this--she never really liked her first name either--and Hux smirks privately. She gives a little noise that's halfway between a scoff and a chuckle when they arrive at the Marriott lobby, and she steps out of the car, getting her suitcase from the back.

“Well, if it's all the same to you, don't stay up too late! I'll be seeing you in the morning, Hux.”

“Right. See you then,” Hux says, and speeds away to the parking structure on the building’s north side. It's a little dingier than the rest of the hotel property, and Hux cynically wonders what the fact that the company only bothers to maintain what they have on display means about the quality of his bedroom tonight. He supposes he shouldn't complain, since the Bureau pays for the hotel bill and travel fees, but one does get a bit spoiled after a long while of such treatment.

He chooses a spot that's relatively close to the entrance, so he's not parked too far into the depths of the parking structure, when his phone rings. Restricted number.

Strange. After a moment of pondering, he decides to answer it.

“Agent Eric Hux, FBI. Who is this?”

“I think you know who I am, Hux.”

The voice on the other end is heavily modified, mechanical sounding and almost comically deep. Hux instantly recognizes it as that of his most secretive criminal informant, a high-ranking member of a huge Miami drug cartel, grandiosely named the “First Order.” Hux has been communicating with him for years, although he is the only CI he has never actually met in person before--presumably because of the secretiveness of his organization, or his rank. Hux knows him only by the alias “Kylo Ren.”

“Ren,” Hux says, faking warmth. “Is this about the Sinaloa cartel? Because we’ve already arrested the major drug lords--”

“This isn't about Sinaloa. This is about Solo.”

Hux is momentarily lost for words. Solo?

True, Han Solo’s death has been all over the news for the past 36 hours, but there was never any mention of federal agents getting involved, and the police were instructed not to reveal any details about the murder under any circumstances. The public was not even aware that Solo was stabbed to death rather than, say, shot. Furthermore, what does a hitman for a Miami cartel care about a dead celebrity in San Diego? Doesn't the First Order have bigger fish to fry? More pivotal murders to orchestrate?

“I--I’m sorry? You have a tip regarding Han Solo?”

“I have… a connection, of sorts, to the Solo family. There’s a girl. Rey Skywalker-- adoptive daughter of the ex-wife’s brother.” Ren pauses to clear his throat, a sign of discomfort, perhaps deception. Hux attempts to profile him as he listens, looking for more little hints in his speech patterns.

“She’s resented Solo. Ever since Ben went missing. Blamed him for it, even.” Interesting; frequent use of sentence fragments signifies incomplete ideas--a hiccup in the brain’s thought processes as it attempts to formulate a lie.

“I'd look into it if I were you. Goodbye, Hux.”

“Wait--!”

The line goes dead before Hux can get another word in. Damn that fucking Ren bastard, always trying to be dramatic, as if this is a fucking movie. No one has ever been able to make him so angry without Hux knowing either their real face or their real voice, but alas. The present situation-- Rey Skywalker.

It's possible that Ren is feeding him complete bullshit--that Solo had some connection to the cartel, and the drug lord Snoke had him taken out--but then why would Ren divulge that information? He only ever offered tips that would aid in the incrimination of enemy organizations. Hux wouldn't be surprised if Snoke listened into their every phone call, with a sniper trained on both Ren and Hux at any given moment.

Either way, Hux had to cover all his bases, because what kind of FBI agent would he be if he didn't? He would speak to Rey Skywalker tomorrow, once he concluded his meeting with the San Diego Police Department. And he would give Ren a piece of his mind, at some point. Possibly. Hopefully.


	2. The Ultimatum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, I realize that if Ben disappeared at age 8, it would have been before Rey was born, but in this story they’re a bit closer in age; Rey was 4 when Ben disappeared. (Also, this may end up being longer than five chapters, because plot! I thought writing a mystery would be difficult but it's actually pretty fun).
> 
> Trigger warning for a brief mention of child abuse, and mentions of child abduction throughout.

It's ten minutes past noon when Hux arrives at the campus of UCSD. He was able to gather a frightening amount of information about Rey Skywalker already, thanks to the AFCARS database for children who are or were in the foster care system. Apparently Rey’s biological parents were close friends of Luke Skywalker’s, and he offered to take her under his wing after they died in a tragic car accident sixteen years ago, formally adopting her when she was three years old. 

Today she is twenty-six--just finishing up medical school at the University of California, San Diego, after majoring in bioengineering and minoring in women’s studies. According to her report cards, she got top marks all throughout her school years, but never had many friends, excluding her older cousin Ben Solo, but that was when she was much younger. High school must have been rough for her, as the records indicate multiple therapy sessions with her counselor (possibly due to resurfacing memories of Ben’s disappearance or her parents’ deaths?), but it must have done her some good, because as of today she is involved in many science and engineering programs at UCSD, even having managed to secure a leadership position in a club for women pursuing STEM careers.

Hux had read her records last night at the hotel with some measure of confusion-- her profile did not remotely match that of the murderer he was searching for, or even a murderer at all. While it is true that most people who go on to kill experienced trauma in their early years of life and had few friends, these offenders are almost always male, and rarely recover so spectacularly from childhood difficulties. Hux isn't surprised that Ren’s tip seems to have been complete bullshit thus far, but he figures that he's here already, and Rey will have to be interviewed at some point, being the niece of the victim, so he may as well be the one to do it.

Morning classes have just let out. A sea of faces and bodies swarms around Hux as he lifts his chin to scan the crowd for the face matching the picture he’s pulled up on his phone. No, that girl is too short, that one has the wrong hair color, and--ah!

He spots a young woman wearing a tan sweatshirt and sweatpants, holding a cup of coffee in one hand and clutching a laptop to her chest in the other. She has the same narrowed green eyes and freckled skin as the girl in the picture. 

“Excuse me-- Rey Skywalker?”

She pauses but says nothing, eying Hux suspiciously, brushing a stray hair out of her face. 

“I’m Agent Eric Hux, with the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. I just have a few questions for you, if you’ve a moment,” he says.

Hux has become adept at approaching people in ways that will make him seem most trustworthy to them, to maximize the amount of information he can extract. If he’s talking to a mechanic who may or may not be a drug dealer, he leans against the garage door, pulls out a cigarette, uses casual language. If it’s the top exec of some software company, he straightens out his suit, and maintains eye contact the whole time, presenting himself as an equal. By refusing to be intimidated, he impresses him.

For Rey Skywalker, his best bet is to be as honest and open as possible. She has met with both cops and shrinks before, and clearly knows when she’s being talked down to. Plus, the woman is about to graduate from medical school--she’s no idiot. He doesn’t say he’s sorry for her loss, because he know’s she’s heard it all before, probably sick of hearing it now, after all the loss she’s endured.

“Of course,” Rey says, but she is still frowning. “Is this about Han?” 

“It is,” Hux says. “I know you may have spoken to local police already, but we just need to give you a few follow-up questions to cover all our bases.”

“Okay,” she says. “What do you want to know?” She agrees to the questioning without missing a beat. Hux makes a note of this in his mind, where all his important notes are kept.

“Do you know of anyone who may have had some disagreements with  Han? Work associates? Ex-lovers?”

Rey’s hackles rise at the “ex-lovers” part. _Oops_. Hux probably shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t have implicated her Aunt at all. She and Luke seem to be all Rey has left.

“No, I can’t think of anyone in particular, though I don’t think I would know. I never really saw him much, after Ben vanished. Sometimes Aunt Leia would come over to visit my dad, though.”

She referred directly to Ben’s disappearance. Someone who has knowledge of a crime is usually reluctant to talk about it outright, instead referring to as “the incident” or something to that effect. Hux makes a mental note of this. 

“I understand that as you grew older, you resented him somewhat? Can you tell me about that-- just to further characterize the victim?”

He’s being as gentle as possible, doesn’t want her to lawyer up. 

“It was so long ago, when Ben disappeared. But, yeah, as I grew up, my dad would tell me things about Han. I got the impression he really wasn’t the best Dad. Aunt Leia was always always so sure Ben ran away of his own accord, then was snatched up by some--predator, I guess.”

Rey shuts her eyes. Under normal circumstances, this would be a sign of deception, but Hux interprets it more as a sign of genuine distress upon recalling the disappearance of her only childhood friend than an act of deceit. She opens her eyes and continues, thumbing the lid of her coffee cup, suddenly looking much younger: “I don’t think I ever really forgave Han for that.”

“Do you know why you blamed him instead of whomever potentially took Ben?”

Rey shrugs. “I don’t know, I don’t think I ever understood what really happened to him. In my six-year-old mind, Han was mean to him, and that’s why he never came back.”

Someone who blamed Han for Ben’s disappearance may have had reason to harm him. This does not necessarily implicate Rey, considering how young she was when it happened, but it introduces and angle to the case that Hux had not previously considered.

“Do you think Ben may have suffered some form of abuse at the hands of his father?” 

“What? No, no, I seriously doubt he did anything intentionally. I mean, I don’t even think Han was _mean_ to him so much as he didn’t really relate to Ben at all, emotionally. He was such a serious kid, and I don’t think Han took his feelings seriously. You know?”

“So Han was an emotionally distant father?”

“Ah, I wouldn't really describe it like that. It's kind of hard to explain, if you didn’t know him. He and his son were just so different, and I think Ben felt lonely.” She shrugs. “That’s all.”

Hux pretends to scribble something down in his notepad, because sometimes interviewees get flustered when they don't have an opportunity to be spared from Hux’s full, sharp attention. In reality, he knows to never write down anything that he doesn't want other people to see; it’s something his father always taught him.

“Can you give us some insight into the nature of Han and Leia’s relationship?”

She shakes her head minutely. “I was so young when they divorced. It was a year after Ben went missing-- I was only five, so I don’t remember a whole lot from when they were married. They seemed happy enough, I suppose? They still kept in contact with each other after the divorce, and worked together on search campaigns for Ben, but they were more distant than before. They still loved each other, probably, but it hurt too much to remain together. Or at least that’s the impression my dad always gave me.” She pauses to scratch her head. “I think my dad was the only one Han had left, after everything.”

Hux is still pretending to take notes when Rey takes out her phone suddenly, presumably to check the time, and frowns. “Christ. I'm going to be late for lunch with him again. I'm really sorry, can we maybe continue this another time? It’s just--” 

“No, I completely understand. I've got everything I need, anyways. Thank you for your time, Miss Skywalker, and I'm sorry for any inconvenience this may have caused.” Hux reaches into his suit pocket and hands her one of his cards. “If you ever see anything suspicious, or recall some pertinent piece of information, you can reach me on the number here, anytime.”

Rey nods and they part ways. Hux begins to walk back to his vehicle, still shocked that Ren ever thought this girl could have possibly stabbed Solo to death. How does a cartel hitman even enter the same social circle as a medical school student, anyways? This whole situation is so ridiculous, Hux has to bite his lip to keep from cackling like a madman in front of all these college kids.

“Wait!” He hears from behind him. He stops, turns around, and Rey is jogging up to meet him again, locks of hair beginning to fall free from her messy bun. 

“Yes?”

Her eyebrows crease with worry and her mouth opens, lips shaking silently for a moment, as if she wants to say something tremendous but can't find the words to do it justice.

“Just--just catch the bastard who did this, okay? I may not have always gotten along with Uncle Han, but he’s still family. He still matters. Towards the end of his life, he felt really alone, I think. Like he failed Ben, but he didn't--it wasn't his fault. He has people who still love him.”

Hux is stricken by this, though he doesn't know exactly why. He's dealt with victims’ families before who were much more hysterical and pitiful than Rey, but there's something about her eyes--the youthfulness of them, maybe--that reaches in and twists something deep inside him. He can't quite formulate a proper response, so he just nods dumbly, eagerly enough that he's probably messed up his hair, wanting to convey through this simple gesture that he will not rest until justice is done.

Rey holds his gaze for a moment, intensely, before giving a short nod in response and hurrying away. He watches her leave, and get in her car before she speeds off. It's a white car, some fuel-efficient hybrid from a company Hux has never even heard of. How fitting.

“Some girl,” he mutters to himself, fumbling with his keys to press the button that unlocks the door to his own Civic.

Rey mentioned she was going to lunch, and Hux is rather hungry himself now, so he looks for the nearest fast food joint with his GPS, but settles on a Mexican place that's close to the beach instead. He's been trying to watch his weight, since he's starting to get a little soft around the edges under his sharp suit these past few months, but fuck it, as long as he's in California, he may as well enjoy some authentic Mexican food. The stuff in Quantico really doesn't compare.

He's just merging onto the freeway when a call comes in from Agent Phasma. It's illegal to talk on the cell phone while driving in Cali, if he recalls correctly, but he’s got a Bluetooth device and Phasma doesn't usually call him for no reason, so he answers it.

“Hey. Got anything good?” He asks, referring to any information she may have gleaned from her interview with Lando Calrissian, one of Solo’s old friends.

“Afraid not. Nothing really stood out as suspicious with him, but I was hoping we could grab a bite to eat, maybe discuss the interviews, see if their stories match up?” 

“Sure, I'm actually on my way to a Mexican place right now. It's on, ah, Regents Road? A place called _Los Primos._ Meet me there?”

“Sure thing, Hux. I'd watch it with the calorie intake, though. Mexican food’s real rich in carbs.”

“Fuck you.” 

“Love you too, darling,” she says, in a particularly mocking sing-song tone. “See you in ten!”

She hangs up before Hux can tell her to fuck off.

He'd never admit to it, but he kind of likes the constant teasing from Phasma. It keeps him on his toes and keeps his ego in check, even if he pretends to act infuriated whenever she makes some smart-ass comment. They've been coworkers for years and their dynamic, however strange it may seem to the others, just kind of works.

Still, when they get to _Los Primos,_ he orders three enchiladas with a side of beans and fries, just to spite her. Phasma asks if they can prepare her a chicken salad, even though it's not _technically_ on the menu.

“Seriously?” Hux asks. “Who orders a goddamn salad at a Mexican restaurant?”

Phasma shrugs and cocks her eyebrow defiantly. Somehow, when sitting down, she looks even taller than Hux than she does standing up, which is more than a little irritating. “I've been getting salads wherever I go out to eat, nowadays.”

“How pretentious. No one thinks you're superior just because you like to survive off leaves soaked in vinegar. I hope you know that.”

Phasma laughs. “I do it for myself, darling, not for anyone else. My body is a delicate thing, you see, and someone has to make sure she remains in proper working order.”

Hux can't believe this giantess of a woman actually used the word “delicate” to describe herself.

“Whatever, Phasma, do what you want. Let's just talk about the case. So, Calrissian?”

“Good friend of Solo’s, going back to before he even met Leia. They were involved in petty crime together in their teenage years, before Solo got his big break as an actor.” 

“And there was no strain or indication of trouble in their relationship in recent years?” 

Phasma shakes her head. “Not at all. He seemed genuinely torn up over his death. He and Solo had grown apart over the years, apparently, so he wasn't able to provide much useful information with regard to recent events. Seemed pretty upset over the fact that he couldn't help at all.”

“Doesn't sound like the behavior of a guilty man.” Hux wipes away some hot sauce he’d inadvertently smeared around his mouth. _Damn_ , it's been awhile since he had a good enchilada.

“That's what I was thinking. Did you get anything out of the niece?”

“Sort of. She also indicated that Solo had virtually severed all his relationships, except with her father. Which explains why Calrissian wouldn't know anything.”

“The SDPD has Mr. Skywalker covered. We’ll see what he has to say soon. Anything else about the girl?” 

“I think she gave us a new angle to work with, in terms of motivation; apparently she blamed Solo for his son’s disappearance, when she was a younger.”

Phasma shrugs. “She's a college student, right? So she would have been, what-- three or four years old when Ben went missing? Children will try to rationalize things using what little knowledge they have of the situation at hand. People were probably reluctant to frame things in a sinister manner to her, since she was so young. It may have made more sense to her that someone she _knew_ caused that trauma in her life, rather than some unforeseen outside force that had never crossed her mind before.”

“I know, but she said even the mother had a feeling that Ben’s disappearance was voluntary, at least at first. He and his father didn't have a close relationship, so he may have been vulnerable to a predator persuading him to leave for good. It's not uncommon for children to run away from home, unfortunately.”

“But a third grader? In an upper-class family? It seems pretty hard to believe.”

“Okay, but even so, someone may have blamed Han for his disappearance. It happens all the time. People want vengeance, we want someone to be held accountable--it's in our nature. And who are the easiest targets? The anonymous predators who could be literally anyone in the world? No, it's the parents. Just look at the cases of JonBenét Ramsey and Madeleine McCann. There was a global media _witch hunt_ against the parents, in both instances. We could be looking for some random vigilante who took justice into his own hands.”

“It's a nice theory, Hux, but _again_ , we have to account for the time difference. I don't see how an unstable individual is going to wait twenty-two years before exacting his version of justice on a man who was long since cleared of any wrongdoing in the court of public opinion. And vigilante murderers are much rarer in real life than they are on TV. It's just not likely.”

Hux sighs dramatically and leans back in the booth. “What was that Sherlock Holmes quote? ‘ _When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?’_ ”

Phasma gives a condescending little smile. “It's lovely literature, but it's not going to persuade a jury beyond a reasonable doubt, I'm afraid. We haven't even got a viable person of interest.”

“So, I guess we're really stuck now. This early on.”

“Keep your chin up, darling. We've still got a lot of ground to cover.”

Hux is feeling a bit pessimistic as they finish up their meal, which is unusual for him. Normally his confidence in his abilities is enough to get him through any case, however difficult to solve it may seem at first. 

This time, however, he has to make certain he solves this one. The case is of such high notoriety, and failure to solve it will reflect especially badly on the Bureau. Hux doesn't want to believe that it will cost him his job, but naturally his mind jumps to the absolute worst possible conclusion whenever possible. It's a mindset that develops naturally from being in this line of work as long as he has.

What's worse is he can't shake the look in Rey’s eyes as she urged him to find her uncle’s killer. The image is burned into his mind. For once, he feels like he's doing this for someone other than himself, which is also unusual; he tries to remain as detached as he possibly can, in most situations. He knows Agent Dameron always keeps a picture of the victim on his current case on his desk to remind him of why he's doing this, who he's fighting for. Hux used to think him a fool for getting emotionally invested in his cases, and while Hux himself isn't to the point of emotional dependency yet, he can appreciate Dameron’s attitude a bit more now.

Agent Phasma leaves in her car to meet with some local detectives back at the police station. Hux is alone in the parking lot of _Los Primos_ when his phone rings, the caller ID once again displaying the words, “Restricted number.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Despite himself, he answers it. “Agent Eric Hux, FBI. Is this Ren?” 

“Have you met with the Skywalker girl yet?”

Bastard. Doesn't even offer a greeting, let alone an answer to Hux’s question.

“I am not permitted to discuss details of the Solo case at this moment in time.” 

“Oh? What a shame.”

Even through the heavy voice modification, Hux can still hear the patronizing lilt in Ren’s voice. It actually reminds him of Phasma, a bit. All the more reason to hate him; at least she _earned_ the right to tease Hux. He knows he shouldn't give in to this shithead, but he just can't resist.

“I’ll have you know your lead was utter bullshit. You couldn't have been further from the truth.”

He resists the urge to add the word “dumbass” to the end of his statement.

Ren actually _laughs_ in response. It's an ugly sound, with the modification. It might have been more appealing to Hux if he had heard the unfiltered version--and why the _hell_ is he debating with himself as to the attractiveness of this hitman’s laugh?

“That's fine. I didn't want her to be guilty, anyways. And don't be so hostile, Hux, I was only trying to be helpful.”

“Well, all you've done thus far is waste the Bureau’s time and resources, so congratulations.” 

It's not entirely true; they were going interview Rey anyways, at some point. But Hux won't let Ren know that.

“I've been told intent is all that matters. That's what you criminal justice folks believe, right? Killing someone on accident isn’t as severe as killing someone purposefully? Either way, someone ends up dead.”

“Did you really call me to debate the appropriate prison sentence for perpetrators of manslaughter? Now you're really wasting FBI resources. Why don't you take it up with your local Congressman? I'm sure he'd love to hear from you, a confessed hitman and druggie.”  

“I don't actually do the drugs, Hux, I just guard the First Order’s right to the territory on which they’re sold. I'm technically not even a part of their chain of command.”

“Oh, my bad, you're positively _saintly_ then.”

“Yes, thank you. Anyway, the reason I'm calling is to let you know that I deserve some compensation for my good intentions--”

Hux interrupts him with a disbelieving guffaw.

“Are you _serious_? You want to be paid for giving me a bullshit tip? You fucking--”

“No, I don't want money. What I need is protection.”

This actually catches Hux off guard. He looks around the parking lot, and seeing some people exiting the restaurant, decides to head to the privacy of his car.

“Protection? From whom?” 

There is silence on the other end for several seconds, and Hux thinks for a moment that maybe the connection dropped before Ren answers him.

“Snoke.”

“Your own boss?”

“I've landed myself in a bit of a...situation, by contacting the FBI without his permission. Let's just say I may not be speaking to you tomorrow if I don't find a safe place to stay soon.”

“You're a hitman. Can't you protect yourself?”

If this were any other CI, Hux wouldn't hesitate to help, but he is more than a little reluctant to put a known professional killer in the Witness Protection Program. The only reason the Bureau hasn't made any attempts to identify and prosecute the feared Knights of Ren (stupid fucking name, in his opinion), is because they have long been instrumental in taking down the numerous competing drug cartels funneling meth, cocaine, and heroin into Miami and much of the southern United States. A dead drug lord is drug lord who doesn't need to be arrested, held for years, fed on taxpayer’s dollars, and eventually tried. Horrible as it sounds, it's easier to let Snoke’s Knights do their own form of policing, and the Bureau doesn't mind looking the other way so long as they only eliminate criminals.

“Against dozens of other hitmen? I seriously doubt it. I need federal protection. They wouldn't dare touch me if I had the Bureau on my side.”

“Well, perhaps you should have become an agent then, instead of a professional murderer. We might have become best friends! We could have done each other's hair, and talked about the boys we liked!”

Hux is furious, and saying things he shouldn't be saying, but how fucking _dare_ Ren assume he is entitled to federal protection for implicating an innocent girl in a horrific murder.

Ren sighs, on the other end, and the lilt is completely gone from his voice when he speaks again. “Look, Hux-- _Agent_ Hux. I am asking you for my life right now. If the FBI truly thinks what I do is horrendous, they wouldn't be so blatantly turning a blind eye to it. And I do really want to help solve Solo’s murder. Like I told you, I have a connection to the family.”

“And how do I know you're not just saying that, hm? How do I know that this isn't some trick, orchestrated by Snoke, to have his contact in the FBI silenced for knowing too much about his most precious Knight of Ren? Why should I believe you're not just going to kill the first agent that--”

“Because I know where Ben Solo’s body is!”

Hux is stunned into silence. What? Ben Solo’s body? How could he possibly-- what the _fuck_?

“You... You realize I can have you arrested for admitting that. If you ever decide to show your face." 

“If you have me arrested, I'll never tell you where the body is.”

“Are you saying you killed him? Is this a confession?” Hux asks, sweating now.

“No, I don't know who killed him, I just know where the body is. Through Snoke, and don't ask me why Snoke knows. None of his lackeys know anything he's planning. He probably convinced someone else to tell him, so he could use it as some sort of leverage.” 

 _You mean like you're going to?_ Hux has to stop himself from saying it out loud. 

“How do I know you're not making this up?”

Silence on the other end for several seconds.

“Red and white striped shirt. Khaki shorts. A Star Wars baseball cap and light-up sneakers. That's what Ben was wearing when he was kidnapped.” 

Hux swallows. His throat is too dry. “Anyone could know that. They broadcast that information to all of Southern California when the search parties began.”

“He had a Power Rangers lunchbox. Underwear with dinosaurs printed on them. He had two crowns in his back molars from cavities. There were three screws on his left tibia, presumably from surgery for a broken bone when he was younger. Shall I go on?”

Hux’s stomach is churning with dread. He's checking the Ben Solo files on his laptop to see if the information checks out and it does. Only a federal agent, someone who knew Ben intimately, or someone who has seen the body would know that information. 

“You could still be lying about having knowledge of its location.”

“Have I ever lied to you before, Hux?”

Hux wants to throw his cell phone onto the asphalt and crush it to pieces in rage because, come to think of it, he hasn't. Ren may be a criminal piece of shit, but all of his tips regarding enemy cartels have checked out, and the Rey tip could have been made out of genuine ignorance or, even _concern_ , strange as it sounds.

Hux’s mind is racing a million miles an hour. If he can get Ren to reveal the location of Ben Solo’s body, he could solve _the_ most infamous case of child murder in the world. What would it do for his career? He would get the raise or a lifetime, could probably retire before he's forty. 

Both of them are silent for a long while, as Hux decides his next course of action.

“Ren. I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to be part of Witness Protection Program, considering you should be dead twenty times over for all the crimes you've committed.”

Hux pinches the bridge of his nose, and shuts his eyes. It feels like he has to physically _force_ the next words out of his mouth.

“However, I can offer you my protection, and the protection of my colleagues-- all highly trained federal agents. You would have to assume a different identity, of course. And we will not hesitate to _shoot_ and _kill_ you if you so much as _think_ about trying anything dodgy. As soon as we can be sure you are no longer in danger of being hunted down by Snoke, you will disclose the location of Ben Solo’s body, or I will have you arrested _immediately._ And you're paying for your own fare to San Diego, so fucking help me.”

Hux can almost hear the smile in Ren’s voice when he next speaks.

“I'm already in San Diego. And thank you for your generosity, Hux. If only there were more good people like you in the world. I'll call you when I'm ready to meet up.”

He hangs up, and Hux slams the lid of his laptop shut, ready to fly into a fit of rage. Of course they're going to meet each other on Ren’s terms, not Hux’s. 

“Fuck. What the fuck. Just-- fucking _fuck_!” 

Hux slams his fists down repeatedly on his car’s console, screaming like a banshee, shaking the entire car, until a little girl walking with her mother on the sidewalk in front of Hux’s car sees him pitching a fit and starts to cry. The mother picks her up and hurriedly carries her away. He forces himself to calm down and eyes them ruefully as they round the corner at the next intersection.

Hux sits in his car for the next twenty minutes trying to convince himself he's doing this to save a man’s life, and not because he's too much of a greedy son of a bitch to pass up a chance at fame for solving the Ben Solo case. If he were a better person, he would turn in his badge and his gun right now, while he's still ahead, but alas. We cannot change who we are, truly. 

“How the _fuck_ is this my life?” He asks to himself, the universe, or no one in particular.


	3. Intersection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry if there are inaccuracies w/r/t FBI stuff, lmao, I'm definitely not an expert on this subject. Also, this chapter contains my first ever sex scene, so sorry if it's sub-par. I really tried!!

Hux and Dameron are reviewing the transcript of Luke Skywalker’s interview with the SDPD when he gets a text from a restricted number. 

Ren, of course. Who else could it be?

 

_ hotel name & room #? --R _

 

Hux hadn’t actually considered how the room and board situation is going to work with Ren. It occurs to him suddenly that if he is going to offer him personal protection, he might actually have to accept a new roommate into his life-- a man who could potentially slit his throat while he sleeps. Hux tries to calm down by telling himself that Ren wouldn’t kill his only means of protection. What could he possibly gain from murdering him? He has to know that Hux would lose his job if it came out that he was directly and willfully sheltering a cartel hitman. The Bureau might be willing to ignore First Order-linked crimes in most cases, but they still have to maintain their image to a certain extent.

Dameron must notice him frowning down at the screen of his iPhone because he asks, “Hey, Hux? You okay? Got some bad news?”

“Ah--in a manner of speaking. It’s just-- it’s personal.”

“Alright, no worries. Just checking.”

He is grateful when Dameron doesn’t press the issue. If there’s one thing Hux likes about the man, it’s that he’s probably the only one of his coworkers who respects his privacy. 

Hiding the Ren situation from Phasma and the others is going to be a bit more difficult. And he  _ does _ have to hide it-- they would certainly trust Hux enough to help protect a man that Hux says needs protecting, as long as that man isn’t a known murderer. Which, of course, he is.

Therefore, he needs to come up with a new identity for Ren that is consistent with all potential sources of information his colleagues could use to find out more about Hux’s mysterious new guest. A cousin? Maybe his father-- it occurs to Hux that Ren might actually be considerably older than he is. But, no, that excuse won't work because Hux has told Phasma before that he doesn’t have any living family. Adoptive brother, cousin? Absolutely not, he can't risk forging adoption records. Too easy to track. An old friend?  _ Ha _ \-- Hux doesn’t have any friends outside his work. What the hell is he going to do?

“Alright, Hux, I get that you might be going through a bad breakup, but we kind of need to focus on the Skywalker interview, here. The homicide Lieutenant wants us to clear him as a suspect as soon as possible,” Dameron says, gently.

“Yeah, no, sorry.” 

He puts his phone down and reads the transcript while he listens to the audio recording. Luke sounds tired, broken, like the need to find Han’s killer is the only thing keeping his voice and his brain functioning. Hux tries and fails to suppress the pang of sympathy he feels at hearing the old man’s wrecked voice.

They learn from the interview that Han had fallen into a depression after Ben’s death that lasted all the way up until his own. Luke thought he had been doing better as of late, however, as he and Leia were on speaking terms again a couple of weeks before the murder. Maybe he’d been starting to put the past behind him, let go of his guilt. Which makes his death all the more tragic.

The last time Luke had visited Han was about three weeks ago, and they’d had a nice dinner at home and talked about how Rey was doing in medical school, her job prospects for the future. Han had been proud of her, and happy for Luke. He talked about wondering what Ben might have wanted to study, where he would have gone to college. Maybe he and Rey would have even gone to the same school.

“I seriously doubt Luke’s our unsub,” Hux says. “His daughter indicated he was Han’s only friend, and he’s got an iron-clad alibi for the night of the twenty-first.”   
  
“Even so,” Dameron says, “the SDPD wants to confirm his actions aren’t suspect.”   
  
“Not a whole lot we can do without video footage of the interview--seventy-five percent of communication is nonverbal. We should just tell them to give him a polygraph.”

“Alright. I’ve got this one, buddy. No offense, but you seem to always make the police hate us more than they already do.”

Hux stretches his arms and twists to the left and right to crack his back, not really wanting to examine the Skywalker interview any further right now. Dameron gets up and calls the local PD on his cell phone to recommend a polygraph.  Hux takes the opportunity to reply to Ren’s text.

 

_ marriott on crenshaw blvd, room 2187 _

 

Ren texts back almost immediately. Like a desperate teenager, Hux thinks.

 

_ on my way --R _

 

He wonders if Ren has a signature that is automatically added to his messages like on internet forums, or if he actually takes the time to sign “R” at the end of each of his texts. He can’t quite decide which is more ridiculous. On the other side of the room, Dameron is trying to calm down a disgruntled homicide Lieutenant. Hux can hear the angry chattering, even though Dameron doesn’t have him on speaker phone.

“No, I know-- sir, I’m sorry, but we don’t really have enough to go off of here in order to clear him immediately-- it’s really not enough for a profile--no, we need more than just audio. We recommend a polygraph at this point for conclusive results-- excuse me? No, I didn’t get my degree from a cereal box. You seem to have a fundamental misunderstanding of how profiling works--we can’t just magically tell if someone’s guilty or where they went to high school just by the way they pronounce certain words.”

The next ten minutes consist of Dameron growing increasingly frustrated with the lieutenant as he tries to explain why a written transcript and low-quality tape recording  isn’t enough to clear a suspect, and Hux pretending to write up a report on his laptop while he listens into the conversation and tries to hold back his laughter. Then, to his horror-- a knock at the door. 

How close was Ren to the hotel when he texted him? Did he already know where Hux was staying? How is Hux going to explain this to Dameron?

“I’ve got it,” Hux mouths to Dameron, who gives him a smile and a nod, still apparently having his ear chewed off at the other end of the line.

He takes a deep breath and smooths his hair before answering the door, psyching himself up for seeing Ren’s visage on the other side, his hand resting over the gun on his hip.

“Housekeeping?” the little woman standing on the other side of the threshold asks when he opens the door.

“What? Oh, I forgot to put up the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, didn't I? It's fine, we don’t need anything, ma’am--”

“Eric Hux?”

Hux and the housekeeper turn around at the same time to face a man neither of them has ever seen before. He's tall--around Phasma’s height-- somehow lanky and muscular at the same time, skin dotted with dark freckles, wearing a casual grey suit with a black undershirt, no tie. He's young, probably even younger than Hux, with surprisingly expressive eyes, a prominent nose, and plush lips. He looks like a normal kid, your average male college graduate. He's stepping aside for the housekeeper to duck awkwardly out of the way and continue down the hall with her cart of supplies. He watches her round the corner and then shifts his gaze to Hux, waiting for an answer, apparently.

“So you’re him,” Hux deadpans. He wants to laugh, thinks maybe this is an elaborate joke Phasma is playing on him, that she was the one who pretended to be a hitman over the phone all those years, orchestrating the deaths of drug lords who didn't even exist, all culminating in this moment, where she hires some guy, probably a male stripper, to show up at Hux's hotel room for a night of-- of what? Hux half expects her to jump around the corner, pointing at him and laughing hysterically as this would-be Ren rips open his shirt to reveal a bulging six-pack.

“Is there a problem?”

When the man standing before him doesn't start undressing, Hux discards the notion that this whole thing is a hoax, and his mind snaps back to its normal alert state, making everything about this ten times worse.

“Is there a problem,” he repeats, impassively. “That depends on your definition of a problem, because yes, I do have a problem or five with this little predicament of ours, Ren, but if you're referring strictly to my reaction to your appearance, no, it's not particularly a problem. You're just-- not what I was expecting.”

Ren nods at this, then sweeps past Hux and into the hotel room, where--oh,  _ God _ \--Dameron is still on the phone with the Lieutenant of homicide at the SDPD.

“Wait!”

He grabs Ren by the back of his suit and drags him back out into the hallway.

  
“What?” He asks, suddenly looking irritated, as if he was the one whose hotel room had just been intruded upon by a criminal.

“You can’t go in there! Dameron will see you.”   


“You didn’t tell them about me?” The only way Hux can describe the expression that crosses Ren’s face is as that of a jilted lover, which only has the effect of making it look more and more punchable by the second.

“What--no, of  _ course _ I didn’t tell them about you, do I look like an idiot? You need to keep out of sight until I can conjure up a satisfactory explanation as to why you’re here.”

“Just say I’m a friend who lost my job, so I have to crash with you. Or something.”

“Yeah, I’m not exactly known among my colleagues for having  _ friends _ , so that’s not going to fly. And family won’t work either-- too easy to trace family. Just--just wait out here!”

Hux slams and locks the door behind him, leaving Ren standing in the hallway. As he does so, Dameron hangs up the phone and turns around to face him.

“God, I try to be nice, I really do, but sometimes these people test my patience, Hux.” His expression changes-- Hux must look like a deer in the headlights. “You okay? Who was at the door?”

“Just a housekeeper,” he says, righting himself. “I told her to come back later. I have to, go-- chat with Phasma--”   
  
“I can ring her up for you, if you want--”

“No-- I’d really rather see her in person, it’s about a different case we were working on together, I just remembered something important, and it can’t wait-- I’ll swing by for dinner later!”

With that, Hux exits the room in a hurry, leaving Dameron looking utterly confused.

“Ren. Weapons,  _ now _ .” Hux holds out his hand expectantly, like he’s asking a toddler to spit something out that it’s not supposed to be eating.

Thankfully, Ren seems to realize he’s in no position to be defying orders at this point, and he obediently produces a silver pistol from his inside coat pocket, holding it by the barrel, and places the grip in Hux’s palm.

“You can keep it. I won’t be needing it anymore, now that I have my bodyguards to protect me.” That stupid lilt is back in his voice again, and Hux frowns, stuffing the gun into his own pocket, his other gun still concealed in its holster.

“Any more?” Hux asks.

“That’s it, I swear. I didn’t come heavily armed. You can pat me down if you want.”

Hux doesn’t want to, but he does, just to be safe. When he’s done, he motions for Ren to follow him, turning away in an effort to hide the visible flush on his face. “We need a private place to speak.”

“There’s a bar within walking distance of this hotel,” Ren says. “My dad used to spend a lot of time there when--when, ah, before.”

For some reason, he shuts up quickly after that, which tells Hux two things: one, Ren probably grew up in the area, and two, he doesn’t have a close relationship with his family. He doesn’t press it, and doesn’t especially blame him for it, being that Hux doesn’t particularly like talking about his own father either.

“I hope this little charade doesn’t end up with both of us dead, Ren,” he says in response. “You sure make it seem like your Knights are something to be feared.”

“They are. But, believe it or not, we’re a lot more scared of you than you are of us. It's the nature of working on the wrong side of the law--you get paranoid.” He smooths his hair back when long black strands start to fall in his face--an oddly delicate gesture for such a graceless-looking man. “But your face is known to them, so if they see us--which they shouldn't, at this point, Snoke still thinks I'm in Miami--they'll be sure to steer clear. They'll think you have snipers set up all around, at all times.”

“We don't,” Hux says, though he's not really sure why. It seems like a stupid thing to say. 

“I know,” Ren replies, grinning. 

The asshole actually looks kind of nice when he smiles, though Hux banishes the thought quickly from his head. Don't think things like that, don't you  _ dare _ . This is already enough of a mess as it is, even without introducing  _ that _ aspect to all of it.

The hotel Hux and the others are staying in is a high-rise, so the elevator ride from the twenty-first floor down to the ground floor is just long enough to the point where it's awkward. They stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the back while it stops occasionally to let more people on, and Hux is twitching minutely at the thought of being trapped in a slowly moving metal box with a murderer. He reminds himself that he has  _ two  _ guns right now, and Ren has zero, which definitely helps a bit.

When the elevator reaches the ground level,Hux weaves urgently through the small crowd in an effort to get off as quickly as possible (small, cramped spaces have never been to his liking). He expects Ren to do the same, but when he turns around, the lanky bastard is actually helping an elderly couple carry their luggage out of the elevator and into the lobby. 

“I’ll be back in a second, Hux, I'm just going to help these folks get their bags to their car,” he says, smiling sweetly, like all of this is normal.

Hux cannot even formulate a response to this. He just balls his fists at his sides and makes sure Ren doesn't snap their necks or anything as he supervises the three of them from afar, Ren with a heavy-looking duffel bag on each shoulder. He follows him outside only when the old couple has their bags all squared away and is taking off out of the parking lot in their old minivan. 

“Nice people,” Ren says when Hux joins him again, “They said I remind them of their son.”

“The fuck was that about, anyways?” Hux asks, ignoring that asinine comment.

Ren's smile fades. “What? Does having an unsavory job preclude me from being a good person?”

“Some would say so, if that job involves murder,” Hux says quietly, through gritted teeth.

“I think you're being a little narrow-minded, Hux,” Ren says airily. “You should learn to be more accepting if you want people to like you.”

“I'm a fucking FBI agent. Were you expecting a warm welcome?”

“No. I was simply making an observation. Offering some  _ friendly _ advice, you know?”

Hux makes a noise that's somewhere between a scoff and a growl, but otherwise the two are silent on the three-block walk to the bar Ren mentioned earlier. It's some hole in the wall place whose name Hux didn't even bother to make note of, though he really should be more cognizant of his surroundings, given the present situation. 

Despite everything, Hux is actually looking forward to enjoying a nice, stiff drink--it's been awhile since he's had one--when none other than _Agent_ _fucking_ _Phasma_ bumps into them on the sidewalk.

“Phasma?” Hux asks in astonishment. “What are you doing here?”

“Walking back to my hotel.” She beams when she notices Ren. “Although, the better question would be what are  _ you _ doing here with this fine  _ specimen _ ?” she asks, smirking and twirling her finger in his direction.

“We, uh, we were--just. This is, ah--”

“I'm his boyfriend,” Ren says with a warm smile, threading his fingers through Hux’s, whose blood runs cold before the word “boyfriend” even fully exits his lips. “My name is Kyle. I hope you don't mind if I borrow Eric for a bit? I know you guys are working on that big case, but he's been so stressed lately, and I've heard great things about this bar.”

Hux is too stunned to offer anything other than a blank stare, his hand sweating inside Ren's.

Predictably, Phasma’s eyes light up like she's just received news that the president’s been shot and now it's  _ her _ turn to take control of the country. She lets out an excited laugh and shakes Hux’s shoulder a little too roughly. “Oh my  _ goodness _ , darling! I've been telling you that you need to find a yourself a nice man for  _ how _ long now? Why didn't you ever tell me about this? Oh, never mind, you two have fun--not too much fun, though! See you later!”

When Ren tries to lead him inside, tugging on his hand, Hux is still rooted to the spot. 

“You coming?”

Ren says those two words as if there's absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about any of this, as if everything isn't at stake for both of them, and something about that snaps Hux out of his shell-shocked funk. He tears his hand from Ren’s and rounds on him, viciously. “You're my boyfriend?  _ Kyle _ ? Fucking  _ really _ ?”

“Well, you weren't offering a satisfactory explanation. You said earlier that you didn't have any friends, so I did what I had to do. You're  _ welcome _ ,” he says, placing particular emphasis on the word “welcome,” the bastard, as if he did Hux a favor, and didn't just do something irreversible like seal Hux’s fate. He isn't quite sure what his fate holds at this point, but whatever it is, he feels like he's just been locked into it. Or maybe, more upsetting, it was sealed when he accepted Ren’s ultimatum--either way, that doesn't make what he just did any less infuriating.

“You said you wanted a private place to talk. Let's just go in, order a couple drinks, and talk, okay? Then we can plan our next move,” Ren says.

Hux twitches at his use of the word “our,” but he follows Ren inside anyways, because  _ yes _ , he did actually suggest this meeting, and it was only by chance that Phasma happened upon them and basically forced Ren to give his bullshit explanation. 

_ A bullshit explanation you would have come to on your own, eventually,  _ a voice inside Hux says. He fucking hates that voice, because it's usually right.

The bar is dark and relatively quiet, with patrons consisting mostly of middle-aged men. Ren and Hux choose a secluded table in the corner to sit at where they're out of earshot of anyone else. A waitress comes and takes their order-- Ren gets a pale ale and some oysters (fucking oysters?) for an appetizer. Hux asks for a glass of White Russian, feeling the need to get tipsy after that embarrassment with Phasma. The worst part is she's probably gone and told everyone else by now, so this is something that Hux is going to have to keep up for awhile. He supposes it  _ does  _ solve a lot-- Phasma may theorize that Hux, feeling lonely without family or close friends, needed someone more intimately involved with him in San Diego for emotional support on the Solo case. It's admittedly un-Hux-like, but she seemed to go for it hook, line, and sinker, so they may as well keep it up.

Hux is the first one to break the silence. “Do you have any idea how long we’re going to have to do this? Like, can you give me a rough estimate? At what point will Snoke leave you alone?”

“Oh, he’ll never stop looking for me, but I only need to be with you until I can find a way to outsmart him. Maybe a few months?”

“ _ Christ _ , are you serious?”

“It won't be that bad, trust me. I'm low maintenance. I've lived off much less than whatever you have, I guarantee it--it'll be like I'm not even there.”

“Somehow I seriously doubt that,  _ Kyle _ .”

“What, are you really that angry about it? I saved your ass back there. You were stammering like a ninth grader giving a class presentation.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Hux says, downing half of his drink when it comes, relishing the burn of it down the back of his throat. He belatedly notices Ren staring a little too long at his neck when he tips back the drink, the weird fucker.

In spite of it all, The food and drink soon dissipate the majority of the tension, and their conversation takes a surprising turn for the civil. They discuss what their plans consist of for the future, which is not much. Hux and Ren will remain together at all times when Ren goes out in public, and when they inevitably head back to Quantico, he can stay in the guest bedroom at Hux’s apartment which he normally uses as an office--he’ll blow up an air mattress, or something, he thinks there's one in the closet somewhere. They should be safe from Snoke for awhile if it's really true that he and the other Knights still have no idea that Ren isn't in Miami. That is, assuming their goal is actually to kill Ren, which still seems odd to Hux given the importance of Ren’s previously held position. The whole operation should be lower-risk than he had originally thought, if all goes according to plan. 

Hux is admittedly more than a little surprised at the person Ren turned out to be, as well-- sure, the bastard can be abrasive and childish, but he's reasonably good at keeping up a believable facade and thinking on his toes, considering his young age. “Thirty as of last month,” he tells Hux. He really might have made a good FBI agent, if the circumstances had been different. 

“Do you want any of my oysters?” Ren asks, and Hux actually laughs out loud at this, a former First Order hitman offering him raw oysters sprayed with lime, as some kind of fucked up peace offering.

“No, they look fucking disgusting,” he says, feeling the alcohol affecting his speech.

“Have you ever even tried oysters before?”

“Why are you like this?” Hux asks, choosing to ignore the oyster inquiry and gesturing vaguely at Ren.

“What kind of question is that?” asks Ren, smiling.

“A good one. And don’t answer a question with a question.” 

“Hypocrite. And I don’t know what you want me to say. Would you rather I be horrible and violent to absolutely everyone I meet? Don’t you think that would be suspicious?”

“It would make more sense, considering.”

“Not really. Aren’t you a profiler?” Ren gives him a pointed look. Hux hates him for being more sober than he is right now.

“Shut up.”

“I was under the assumption that we were here to discuss strategy, not to get drunk and behave childishly towards each other.”

“Yeah? Well, there’s been a change of plans,” Hux replies, leaning back in his seat.

“What happens if I get attacked right here, in this bar? Are you too inebriated to fire a decent shot right now?” At this point, Ren is just teasing--he doesn’t expect to be attacked. If anything he just seems satisfied, too smug about the fact that he has control of the conversation at the moment.

“I’d give it my best shot,” Hux says, not realizing the pun he's making, “but I won't lose sleep too much sleep if I miss. Who knows? I may not even end up needing you to solve the Ben Solo case, anyways.”

“We’ll see,” Ren says simply.

They have a few more rounds of drinks, and Hux begrudgingly ends up trying the oysters; the texture is slimy and uncomfortably wet, but the taste itself isn't actually that bad, though he doesn't let Ren know that, of course. It's late when the two of them get back to the hotel, well past midnight. Hux scowls when Ren immediately flops on the small room’s only bed, gawky arms and legs spread comically out across the surface of the comforter.

“Um, hey, genius? Where am I going to sleep?”

Ren doesn’t answer, but rolls over to the right side of the bed, folding his arms across his chest and closing his eyes, looking like a corpse in a casket. Hux realizes with a twitch of rage that they’re going to have to sleep in the same bed. He takes especially long in the shower, dreading the moment when he has to step out of the bathroom and literally sleep with a  _ murderer _ . He lets the hot water run down his back as he scans his recent memory idly to see if there was anything he did to deserve this, but nothing especially stands out. If only he could undo all of this, shove Ren back in whatever car or bus he arrived here in, erase his memory of ever knowing Hux, and ship him straight back to Miami. Perhaps this was a mistake-- Hux won’t truly know until he can get eke out the location of Ben Solo’s body.

Ren has moved under the comforter and seems to be asleep when Hux steps out of the shower with a towel around his waist, but Hux doesn’t take his chances and grabs his boxers and a T-shirt from his suitcase, opting to get dressed in the privacy of the bathroom. When he’s done, he climbs carefully into his side of the bed, as far as Ren as he can possibly get without falling off the edge, and forces his eyes shut, lying perfectly still, willing a dreamless sleep to come and take him out of this fiasco for a few blissful hours.

  
  


***

  
  


Hux wakes up the following morning too warm, with something heavy on top of him. It’s--oh.

It's Ren. He must have migrated to Hux’s side of the bed at some point during the night and slung his arm around Hux's torso. Hux feels his fight-or-flight response kicking in, his hangover-wrecked brain struggling between kicking Ren off or lying stone-still and waiting for him to shift away. 

He decides on the former after his morning wood makes itself known, hauling Ren's arm off his chest and jumping out of the bed as ferociously as possible, in an effort to wake his bedmate up. It works--Ren groans and blinks his eyes awake.

“I don't know how the fuck I'm going to look my coworkers in the eye today,” Hux says, voice still crackly with sleep. He sighs heavily. “So we're going with Kyle for your first name. What about your last name?”

Ren rubs his eyes, makes another groggy noise. “I don't know-- how about Watson?”

“Watson? Why?” Hux asks.

“Like, you know. Sherlock and Watson.”

Hux glowers at him. “I hope you're not implying what I think you're implying.”

“What? I can't help you with your work? I thought the only reason you agreed to keep me here was  _ because  _ I could help you on the Solo case,” he says. “Not like I have anything else to do.” He sounds like a bored teenager, which only irritates Hux further.

“Actually, it was more like you told me you wouldn't provide information vital to solving an innocent child's murder unless I would protect your sorry ass from your own goddamn people, but whatever. You just--”

Hux is interrupted by his cell phone going off. Shit, he forgot to charge it last night, he was so tired after--what did he do last night again? Oh yeah, the bar--his pounding headache reminds him. He looks down at the caller ID and sees Agent Phasma’s name displayed across the screen.

“What's up?” he asks.

“Hux. It's urgent-- we have a new lead on the Solo case. A black SUV was caught on surveillance at the gate to Solo’s neighborhood the night of the twenty-first; Ford Explorer--”

“I thought the SDPD already cleared the surveillance tapes--didn't they match up all the cars on the recording to ones belonging to people in the neighborhood?”

“Who is it?” Ren asks. Hux holds up a hand to silence him.

“One of the neighbors  _ does _ have a black Ford Explorer, which is why we didn't notice this until an officer went back over the tapes again. This one is different-- it had something covering the license plates, a large scratch on its left side. We need all agents on the highways now. Pava and Dameron are heading East on the 78, you got North on the 5?”

“Right away,” Hux says, and hangs up.

“What happened?” Ren asks, sitting up in bed.

“We have a lead on an unidentified vehicle seen leaving the neighborhood, I have to go--”

“I'm coming with you,” Ren says, vaulting out of the bed.

“No, you're fucking not.”

“I'm vulnerable here, unarmed. And who better to catch a killer than another killer? Come on, Hux,” he says, sliding on a fresh shirt--Hux's shirt. 

“Are you seriously wearing my shirt.”

“What? We still have to keep up the boyfriend act, don’t we?”

“Most FBI agents don't bring their significant others on emergency searches with them,” Hux says, hating himself for referring to Ren as his “significant other.”

“Say I'm an off-duty cop, then,” Ren says, already grabbing his phone and striding out the door.

Hux sighs heavily, for what's probably the third time in the five minutes he's been awake, and figures that it's probably best not to leave Ren unsupervised in the hotel room. He follows him out into the hall, placing his gun in his holster and his key card in his pocket.

They soon merge onto the highway and speed along the far left lane in relative silence, Hux focusing on driving, snapping to attention whenever he sees a large black car. Ren is in the passenger seat, hands on his legs, intently scanning the columns of vehicles for the car in question, too. He’s not even that much taller than Hux, but for some reason he looks far too big for the car seat, brawny legs folded up almost to his chest, one of them bouncing impatiently, noisily. Hux resolves to ignore the irksome presence beside him and concentrate on the task at hand.

“Hux,” Ren says, about twenty-five minutes in.

“Shut up, Ren, I'm trying to focus.”

“Hux!” 

“I said--”

“Black Ford Explorer, three o’clock,” he says calmly, chorally, almost like an aside. Hux's gaze shifts slightly to the right and, sure enough, there it is. He switched lanes and lines himself up behind the vehicle, switching on the civic’s detachable police lights. It takes a few minutes for the driver to realize there's an unmarked law enforcement car behind them, and they pull over, quickly and shakily, like they're nervous or startled.

“Stay here,” Hux says to Ren, and then he steps out of the Civic, drawing his gun when he sees a scratch in the paint along the left side that looks like it might have been made with a key.

“Step out of the vehicle slowly, with your hands on your head!” he shouts, trying to make himself seem as authoritative as possible. It's not often he finds himself having to pull out his gun, used to doing most of his work behind a desk or at a crime scene.

Hux is surprised when a little woman steps out of the SUV, absolutely terrified, hands trembling as she places them on her scalp. Hux peers into the tinted back windows, sees the pigtails of a little girl and the outline of a child’s car seat. 

_ Shit _ . This doesn’t match the profile he came up with at all--he lowers his gun.

“Hux!” Ren shouts from the car. “You've got a call coming in--one of your guys says she’s got a man pulled over. Shots fired on the side of the 78-- I don't think that lady's got anything to do with it.”

Hux returns his glance to the petrified woman. “Ma’am, I am terribly sorry about this--”

“What?” she asks shakily, over the crying of her children in the car.

“I'm afraid this was just a terrible mistake, ah--”

“Hux! They need backup!”

“I have to leave now--it's an emergency,” he says breathlessly, turning around wildly and sprinting to the car, hopping inside, hitting his head on he roof in the process. He avoids the young woman's eyes as he steps on the gas, leaving her standing dumbfounded on the side of the freeway. “Great,” he says to Ren as they speed away, rubbing his aching right temple, “now I'm going to have a fucking lawsuit on my hands. Pulling a gun on an innocent woman, what the hell am I going to do?”

“You've got more pressing issues right now,” Ren says and somehow, this reassures him, even though it really shouldn't, because what the fuck does Ren know.

When they arrive at the site of the standoff, it's already over, thank the fucking heavens, SDPD officers leading a bedraggled looking old man with stringy gray hair into the back of a cop car. Hux glances at the black Ford Explorer on the side of the road, bullet holes in its sides, its paint chipped and faded--unlike that of the woman he pulled over. Furthermore, the “scratch” on its left side is less a scratch than a deep score, gouged viciously into the metal of the door. It's his turn now to stand there, dumbfounded, arms hanging listlessly at his sides.

Phasma strides up to him shortly afterwards, looking proud and utterly pleased, with her arms crossed confidently.

“Are you fucking serious?” Hux asks, turning to her. “You couldn't text me a picture of the car or something?”

“What are you talking about? We caught the guy-- pulled him over, told him he was under arrest for the Solo murder, and he pulled a gun on us. We've got him, Hux! We’ve got the Solo killer!”

“And I saw a car matching the description you gave me and ended up scaring some kids’ mom half to death when I pulled out my gun on her,” he says, relieved that the whole thing is over but still nervous about the implications of his strange encounter with the woman.

“Relax, she'll probably call nine-one-one, the police will do a follow-up investigation, discover it was one of our agents, and leave it alone. You had probable cause-- just look at what happened here,” she says, gesturing towards the bullet-ridden car.

“Did anyone get hurt?” Hux asks.

“No-- suspect’s okay, and so are we, thank god. The county detectives are going to try to get a confession out of him after he's treated for shock at the hospital, but our job’s done for now. He's in custody.” A look of excitement crosses Phasma’s face once again. The haze of post-criminal-apprehension is one of the few times Hux ever sees her actually look  _ giddy _ . “We did it!”

“Yeah, we did,” Hux says, still too dazed to be excited. He wonders what the old man’s connection to Solo could possibly be. Neither he nor anyone remotely resembling him had ever come onto the Bureau’s radar during the course of the investigation. “What's his name?”

“Boba Fett was the name he gave us upon his arrest. We won't know more until tomorrow, probably. No use in worrying about it now-- this is in the SDPD’s hands at this point. They'll call us in if they need help during the interview. We should grab a drink to celebrate, eh, Hux?” She proposes, elbowing him.

“No, I’ve got some stuff I should work on back at the hotel. Dameron will probably take you up on that offer, though.”

“Oh, it’s fine. I get it--new  _ man  _ in your life and all,” she winks, and Hux pointedly ignores her.

He heads back to his Civic to rejoin Ren once Phasma leaves in her own car, and the local CSI team takes the SUV and bullet casings in as evidence, cleaning up the scene of the standoff before it can cause a traffic jam on the highway. It's only once they are back at the hotel that Hux begins to feel something approaching accomplishment, and why  _ shouldn’t _ he feel accomplished? The Solo case is just about solved and it's not even noon. Yet, he doesn't quite feel a complete sense of closure, and no matter how hard he tries to convince himself it's over, some lingering uncertainty still gnaws incessantly at the back of his mind. Maybe it's because he hasn't heard the details of Fett’s interrogation yet, or maybe it's just a natural byproduct born of the investigative mind, but it’s irritating, either way.

Regardless, Ren orders drinks to celebrate, courtesy of the hotel’s room service. He actually has a considerable amount of cash on him--Hux learns that Ren was paid quite handsomely for his work as a hitman, and lived meagerly only as a means of keeping him isolated and well-disciplined. Ren learns a few things about Hux, too; mainly that he's a lone wolf of sorts, not having any friends outside of work, and he hasn't had a steady boyfriend since college. Ren comforts him by telling him he's never had anyone,  _ ever _ ; Snoke doesn't allow his Knights such base pleasures, says it's to ensure their loyalty lies only with the Order. Ren finds this somewhat shocking-- Ren  _ is _ handsome, and he has a nice body--no, he tells himself, he’s not pining, it’s an objective  _ fact _ . The man could probably hop into bed with whomever he desired, should he ever want to.

Hux forces himself to stop thinking about Ren’s physical attributes, and they laze around watching the news until two. When they get bored of that, they chat for several more hours about current events, detective work, each other, whatever, until evening comes. Then, they order dinner from room service, Hux sitting cross-legged on the bed and Ren sprawled out in the swivel chair at the desk, thumbing through the tourist brochures laid out there as the he listens to Hux voice his doubts about the events of today. 

“It just doesn't make any sense,” he says, taking another sip of brandy. “All the clues at the crime scene pointed to a disorganized killer--someone who knew the victim. And then this fucking--what's his name? Boba Fett--comes out of nowhere and shoots at federal agents because they think he had something to do with it? None of the Skywalkers ever mentioned a Fett.” He really shouldn't be discussing the case with Ren, someone he's only really known for two days, but the alcohol is loosening him up and he can't help himself--it feels good to have someone to ramble to, and if you want to get technical, he's actually known Ren for years, just never seen his face until recently. “It's just, like, what the fuck?”

“Maybe Han was the only one who knew him. Your friends don't know everyone  _ you _ come into contact with, right?” Ren asks, examining an advertisement for jet skiing in Mission Bay with detached interest.

Hux rolls his eyes. “If you're referring to my housing a professional murderer, then  _ correct _ , they don't know everything I get up to. But still, this man was old, and it seems odd for someone of his age to have made such a brutal mess of Solo. He must be pretty damn sprightly.”

“Let the local detectives figure it out, then. You deserve to relax, after all this.”

“Yeah, I do. I really fucking do, don't I?” He falls down on his back and stares up at the ceiling, letting his weight sink down heavily into the plushness of the bed. It feels like forever since he's had a good night's sleep-- it's not even that late and he can already feel that if he closes his eyes now, they might not open again for another several hours.

“So, let's watch a movie,” Ren suggests.

“I--what?”

“A movie. I’m in the mood for one. Specifically, a murder mystery--in honor of what we did today. Aren't you?”

“Seriously? What are you, twelve?” Hux can't help but laugh derisively, but he's already pulling up the movie listings on the hotel’s TV, pretending that he’s doing this with some measure of reluctance. As an FBI agent, he's particularly selective about which forms of murder-mystery media he consumes--most of them have so many inaccuracies that they ruin his ability to enjoy them, even with a generous suspension of disbelief. He scrolls through a long list of all the hotel's selections in the mystery genre before settling on one he's never heard of before, but it's by a director he knows and likes, so he's willing to take a chance on it.

Ren pushes him over to make room on the bed, eliciting a growl from Hux, though there's no real malice in it. It's not long before they turn off the lights and begin watching the movie, and the last thing Hux thinks before his mind becomes engrossed in the plot of the film is how surreal all of this is, how he's laying in bed next to a man he knows to be a killer, someone he would normally be sworn to catch and prosecute, but also about how he really doesn't mind it all that much. After all, Ren does seem to mean well so far, having genuinely tried to help him locate the SUV earlier in the day, and Hux allows himself to think maybe it really is possible that Ren is just an overgrown kid who got caught up with the wrong people early on, looking for a way out of a life he knew would lead him nowhere but further down a path he didn't want to be on.

They're much closer on the bed than they were last night, their arms touching, and the point of contact causing butterflies to erupt in Hux’s stomach. He chides himself for it silently--after all, what is he, a ten-year-old schoolgirl? All thoughts of that day dissipate as the movie progresses, however, and the only things that fill his conscious mind a half-hour later are who killed the fictional detective’s wife and the skin of Ren’s arm flush against his, the outline of Ren’s lips in his peripheral vision, the closeness of him, the warmth. He wonders if he were to do something strange now--reckless--how would Ren react? It would just be to test the waters, to make an observation, for criminological purposes--to better understand how killers experience intimacy, help with future profiles. That's what he tells himself this man is--a fascinating science project.

He leans against Ren experimentally, feigning exhaustion, but Ren doesn't move. After a tense, panic-fraught moment, he is rewarded with an arm slung around his shoulder, pressing him closer into Ren’s side. Hux is relieved, and glad for the darkness of the room, so Ren won't be able to see his giddy smile.

And then, back on the screen, the hardboiled protagonist, a dedicated detective at Scotland Yard, interrogates a man with the surname “Watson.” It brings to mind the stupid alias Ren had chosen for himself earlier that day, and Hux starts giggling uncontrollably, inhibitions lowered by the considerable amount of brandy he’d had during the course of the evening.

“What?” Ren asks, innocently.

“Fucking-- _ Watson _ . Kyle Watson, boyfriend of Agent Eric Hux.”

“Yeah, you got a problem with that?”

“It's fucking dumb!” Hux shouts, but he's still laughing, and Ren is laughing too, his face is too close, or maybe not close enough, and then his lips are on Hux’s, so it really doesn't matter, and Hux can't stop himself from melting into the kiss, despite all remaining sensible faculties in his brain screaming at him,  _ Stop! No! This is a bad idea! _

He ignores them and shuts his eyes, opens his mouth, letting Ren in, soothing his tongue in soft, short strokes against Ren’s. He feels like velvet, tastes like brandy, and also something sweeter, more base, like raw flesh. Ren is inexperienced--Hux can tell--but it somehow makes him all the more endearing, and what he lacks in finesse he makes up for in enthusiasm, grabbing Hux’s waist in the hand that's not around his shoulder and hauling him gracelessly into his lap.

Straddling Ren now, they kiss some more, Hux dragging his lips along Ren’s jaw and drawing a moan from him as he grinds his hips down against Ren’s, slightly ashamed that he isn't able to hold himself back as much as he should. It's been far too long since he's done this, and Hux stills himself with considerable effort, not wanting it to end before it's even began. He's panting almost as hard as Ren is, now, which is embarrassing. “Do you, ah, want to--?”

“Yes,” Ren answers, and tugs at Hux’s shirt, the impatient bastard. Funnily, though, he seems unsure of how to proceed once he has it off, his hands in the air like they're waiting for permission to touch.“I, um. What do I--?”

“Fingers first,” Hux says. “There's lotion in the bathroom.” 

Ren seems to sense than Hux isn't in any mood to move from this bed, lube be damned, because he slides out slowly from under him and retrieves the small white bottle from the bathroom counter without complaint, slicking his fingers with it as he returns. Hux takes off his shirt and moves onto his back, hugging one of the plush pillows behind his head as Ren covers his body from the cold of the room with the warmth of his own, dark tendrils of hair hanging down to ghost over Hux’s cheeks. He lifts Ren’s shirt off over his head, then drags his fingertips over the pallor of Ren’s chest. Ren shivers, has probably never been touched so gently before. Hux feels a pang of sadness at that, for some asinine reason, and moves his hands to Ren’s face, stroking his thumbs over soft, freckled cheeks, looking into impossibly bright, unguarded brown eyes.

“Kiss me,” Hux commands, though it comes out breathlessly, more like a plea, and Ren obeys, regardless, pushing a slick finger into Hux as he does so, and-- _ oh.  _ The sound he makes against Ren’s mouth is embarrassingly vulgar. He pulls back and bites his lip hard to maintain some semblance of dignity as Ren fucks him with his finger, rubbing his clothed erection spasmodically against Hux’s thigh. 

“Another,” Hux whines, groaning when Ren slides another finger in, then another, when Hux asks him for more.

The movie blares on, forgotten, casting soft blue light on the arc of Ren’s back, the contour of his muscled arms. Hux grabs onto them for traction, then fucks himself down onto Ren’s fingers, ready for even more. Ren grunts and pulls his fingers out long enough to undo his pants and Hux’s, tossing them over and onto the floor.

“What, ah--?” Ren asks, suddenly unsure of himself again, waiting for direction from Hux.

“Slick yourself, then, um. Just be slow about it,” he says, keeping hold of Ren’s arms, squeezing them reassuringly. He wonders belatedly why he gets to be Ren’s first, why he's letting him see this, have this, though he supposes it really doesn't matter, because then Ren is lined up against his entrance, pushing into him, and all coherent thoughts leave his head as he surrenders to the sensation of Ren sinking inside him. As Hux expected, his cock is impossibly big, just like the rest of him, and he has to push in at an excruciatingly slow pace, his girth stretching Hux almost painfully, but not quite, like the pleasant burn of the leg muscles after a long run. Hux’s half-closed eyelids flutter and his mouth hangs open as he tightens his vice grip on Ren’s biceps, adjusting to the bizarre but pleasurable intrusion in his ass. 

After a few moments, he opens his eyes more fully to see Ren hovering above him, pupils blown wide and panting breath tickling Hux’s face. He suddenly realizes he's waiting for permission to move--Ren has probably spent his whole life taking orders, searching for an objective fulfill, a master to please, and Hux thinks wryly that he ought to indulge Ren in this, even in bed. Or, especially.

“You may begin moving,” he instructs, ragged breathing eroding the modicum of authority he struggles to maintain in his voice. When Ren moves, it's slow but enormous, and Hux can feel Ren’s cock pressing up against the deepest part of him, the feeling of it pulsing against his stomach, his lungs, his limbs, rearranging his insides irreversibly. Hux groans.

Ren huffs in answer, picks up his pace, moves his restless hands to Hux’s hair, gripping it firmly, lowering his head to hide his face in the crook of Hux’s neck. Before Hux can stop himself, he hooks his arms around Ren’s back to hold him there, against him, the two of them rocking against the bed as Ren fucks him deeply, exquisitely, down into the sheets. He stills his hips for a moment to catch his breath, snapping them forcefully back in when Hux mewls in complaint.

“Ah!” Ren answers each of Hux’s successive, undignified cries with another ruthless thrust of the hips, face still tucked warmly to Hux’s neck, moving his hands down to brace against Hux’s thighs. Ren picks up his pace and Hux growls his praise, lifts his hips just so, letting Ren pound relentlessly against that sweet spot again and again and  _ again _ , until Hux can't hold it together anymore, and he comes with a strangled shout, clawing red trails down Ren’s back as he spills onto both of their chests, untouched. Kylo comes not long after, collapsing in a sweaty heap on top of Hux, who should be irritated but can't bring himself to care in his blown-out, post-sex haze.

It might be Hux’s imagination, but he thinks Ren actually  _ nuzzles _ at his chest in the aftermath of it, wanting to burrow inside Hux and stay there for awhile, and Hux actually finds himself wanting that too, so he allows it, stroking Ren’s unruly hair absently. They lay still for awhile, coming back to their senses, and then Ren reaches across the bed for the remote to shut off the TV, neither of them particularly caring about the movie anymore, pleasantly fucked-out and ready for sleep.

“This is so fucked,” Hux murmurs, shutting his eyes. “We’re so fucked.”

“Being fucked isn't necessarily a bad thing,” Ren mouths against his chest. Hux swats the back of his head.

“Oh-so-clever. Just shut up and let me rest,” Hux says, and Ren does.

Hux succumbs to sleep almost immediately, hazy afterglow giving way to a series of strange pseudo-dreams to occupy his subconscious now-- his father and classmates standing ominously before him, Hux looking down to discover he's completely naked, covering himself in a panic--Ren dressed in a black suit and tie, standing in the middle of a field, holding a flower that turns into a disembodied penis when Hux accepts it--falling through cotton candy clouds, shoveling mouthfuls of the sugary fluff into his mouth as he descends, then--a whistle, or an alarm, or something sounds, and Hux is suddenly jolting awake just before he hits the ground.

His eyes snapped open, he looks at Ren, who’s lifting his head off Hux’s chest and opening his eyes, too. The noise must not have been solely a creation of Hux’s mind, then.

“Ugh,” Hux says, “it's my damn phone. I forgot to put it on silent.”

“I think mine’s going off, too,” Ren says, and he grabs the both of them from the nightstand, handing Hux his. Hux’s blood runs cold when he opens up the text he just received. The sender’s name isn't even listed as a “restricted number,” it's just blank.

“Did you--”

“Get the same text?” They hold their phones together, terror electrifying the air around them as they compare the messages, only to find that, yes, they are identical:

 

_ hope ur enjoying the west coast. don't get too cozy, tho-- S doesn't leave loose ends untied. --R _

 

Hux thinks it at the same time Ren says it. “They know. They know I'm here.”

And for the first time in his life, Hux is truly afraid.


End file.
